MY GIRL

On my birthdays,
mom used
to tell everyone
the story about
the ruffled romper
she dressed me in when
I was brought
back from the hospital.

When I turned five,
my dad decided
to paint the house, as
mom insisted my walls
should be light pink
with striped purple accents.

When I was ten,
she joined my friends’ mothers
to host sleepovers at our house.
During those nights,
my friends and I would paint our nails
put our hair in rollers
and watch My Girl lying
on pastel sleeping bags.

In middle school,
she took me shopping
to get a yellow lacy dress
for my homecoming dance
because I had no option
since my mother already volunteered
to be a chaperone.

When I started high school,
I painted my room blue.
She often told me
no man will want me
if I don’t start acting like a lady.

In college,
drunk on Jack and Coke
I called her
to say,
I’m not the daughter
she’d be proud to have
since I don’t
like men.

She said
it’s ok that I
don’t like college men.
They can be
very immature
anyhow.